Sunday, 29 October 2017

From the roof I look
over Modinagar station directly below and out across the maze of
angular rooftops dissipating into a milky haze of morning smog.
Macaques rummage unseen, deep inside the crowns of fruiting trees. A
train pulls into the 1000 metre long platform, cutting off the flow
of pedestrians on the line. People climb into the open doors and
disappear into the windowless carriages.

I cross the roof to the
West, climbing between a web of cables, through narrow doorways,
along terraces and around rusted cages built over satellite dishes
and skylights to keep off the macaques. Drains clog with green algae
and another is full of old light bulbs that crunch under my feet.
Concrete turning to rubble and dust mixed with guano cascades down
the walls, collecting on sills, ledges and the broad leaves of garden
creepers grown wild below.

To the West I overlook
the sugar mill; decorated lorries, bullet carts and tractor trailers
loaded with sugar cane form a cue below. Macaques clamber, unseen on
the high loads nonchalantly chewing on the cane, an easy target ( I
have seen pedestrians in town steal a stick from the slow moving
tractors as they cross the road, gangs of school boys snap canes on their knees, the unsuspecting victim rumbling down the road behind them). Pure white egrets pick amongst the
empty trailers and heavy machinery, looking for insects, small
mammals and reptiles. A family of mongoose weave in and out of
corrugated shacks built around a giant silo. The convoy of sugar cane
snakes around this silo and into warehouses where cranes transport
the sugary loads into the dark recesses beyond. Above, more silos
rise amongst a network of overhead pipes. Chimney stacks reach even
higher into a static clot of yellow haze.

In late afternoon the
sun hangs above the factory, a visible disk smothered by smog, an
orange crescent around it, purple brown below. Macaques troop through
the factory in a long procession appearing and disappearing over
rooftops as they travel into the distance.

As night falls on the
31st, the convoy into the factory is double thick snaking
out the gates into the main road. Lorries hidden from above by the
gigantic bundles, spindly canes piled high and overhanging. Macaques
clamber over them, bathed in phosphorescent light. A boy washes
clothes on the pavement below, men mill around, a bullet cart starts
rolling, the farmer takes a running jump onto the edge of the cart
whilst examining his bill of sale he carefully folds it into his
pocket and pulls at the rains of his buffalo. The factory is lit
internally, the workings now visible, mechanical claws lifting cane
and piling it high in the yellow glow. Vertical sheets of shadow beam
into the night sky. Techno rumbles out of the streets beyond the
railway, mingling with the workers radio station punctuated by the
clang of metal claw and woody cascading of cane.

Tuesday, 17 October 2017

18th. We stay four nights in
the foothills. Steep sided wooded valley, fiery yellow hillsides,
terraces climbing high, crystal clear river below depositing granite
beaches and boulders. The road runs along the Southern bank, our
home-stay is on the North side serviced by a zip-wire with a hanging
basket that you can pull yourself across on. Well trodden footpaths
lead up in every direction, weaving between terraced maize and
orchards. They link the farmhouses together, the highest must be
several hours walk up very steep terrain. 200 metres up from our
home-stay the path leads us onto the porch of one old farmhouse built
into the hill, a bright green wooden veranda jutting out on the first
floor, supported by simple wooden pillars and clad in red panels. The
walls are lime wash, heavy granite tiles on the roof and a small
shrine just visible under the eaves. A larger shrine is on a terrace
above the house, green painted wooden frame on a stone platform
supports a roof. Underneath the roof; offerings of grain, flowers and
gold woven material are arranged amongst more permanent calved
figures, tin metal snakes nailed to the eaves and rows of iron
tridents on the outside. People pass by this family house and shrine
as the path network runs from house to house through one another's
backyards. Many carry maize or the papery leaves stripped from the
cob used as cattle fodder. Many stop to talk, one mentions the shrine
dedicated to Shiva, recognisable in the weathered carved tablets
leaning around the shrine platform, they look ancient, older than the
farms and the people around, yet there just there in the open
untouched. Shiva is the Hindu god of the Himalaya, Great Shiva the
Re-Creator and Destroyer.

Trithan Farm

Over the next two days
we get to know the family of the red house; a couple married two
years ago, in their early twenties with a 18 month old girl and
another baby on the way. An old gentleman said to be the younger's
father but must be his grand father. He is kind, bringing us fruit
from the orchard, straightening out the shrine when he sees me
drawing, a beam is out of place he mimes and some overgrown weeds are
pruned. His wife would come and watch us paint fascinated by the
process, then drift off to do some washing or spread out the chillies
drying on the roof. The old man is death, determined in his
communication and resolute in getting his point across especially
when he disagrees with how I have drawn something; as is often the
case in India, drawings with an audience like this one become a
democratic process. His son/grandson tells me he is an artist, a very
good painter but my enquiry into this got lost in translation.
Through out the days painting the son would visit, sit with us
sometimes with his daughter who he sung to, sometimes his wife would
come too meeting passing neighbours on the footpath. The old man
loved to visit but he was seen as a nuisance to us by the family so
would be shouted at a lot if seen sneaking up to peek at what were
doing, poke and point at the work in progress. He was a humorous,
mischievous character, who once made us laugh by setting down a
bundle of kindling on the lawn and lighting it with sparks that burst
into such vicious flames that he had to fling himself away onto his
back.

19th. We spend Divali here,
invited into the family home of our hosts, sitting in an upstairs
room with grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and nieces eating
sweets. Everything builds up to the fireworks which is an exciting
display managed by the youngest members of the family. As a rule the
lighted fireworks are something to run towards or throw at each
other. 4 -18 year olds immerse themselves in the close proximity of
the explosions unscathed, whilst we suffer minor cuts, burns and
tinnitus as we try to shelter close to the farmhouse only to be
ambushed with bangers by the elders on the balcony above. In the
shadows of the farmyard a grandmother goes about fetching things in
buckets completely unfazed by the mayhem her family are creating.

20th. This morning I get up
to work on the farmhouse painting whilst it is still cool. I swim in
the river at midday and manage to stay in the icy water a couple of
minutes this time. Once the shade hits the river shore around 3pm, I
start a new painting on the beach. I lay out a piece of the large
printing paper and with a broad brush wash in the valley sides. Then
the wooded banks now turning to silhouette against the orange
hillside to the East catching the last light.

I finish the river
drawing in the morning before the sun is up, adding the crossing,
highlights to the foliage and the boulders on the beach. (um, rs, ru,
aur, rmg, qr and pas ...I think).

Trithan Stream and Crossing

Afterwards, hike with
Matt towards the East peak, making it as far as eye level with the
Griffon Vultures, soaring on the first high ridge, probably 800
metres or so above the river. The views are spectacular on every turn
as we climb quickly on steep paths. We make some sketches before
descending with a much greater perspective of this valley and reason
to return with so much more to explore. A pair of oriental white eyes
pick at a plumb tree on the way down, a stunning acid yellow bird the
size of a goldcrest, sparkling white eyes; gems hidden on the vast
hillside.

Himalayan Griffon Vulture

We walk into Gitiorni
and eat a bowl of the fresh spicy pasta they make here, before I pick
up a fishing permit and spend the rest of the afternoon spinning for
trout in the river. I catch seven brookies, two of which we eat along
with three more hooked out by our host's brother in a tenth of the
time it takes me. We leave early the next morning for Shimla,
travelling ten hours over about 250km on the local bus.

Saturday, 14 October 2017

New Manali is booming,
hotels and holiday apartments are going up everywhere, steadily
filling in the skyline to block all but the highest peaks such as
Nasogi and Bashisht that still dominate the sharply rising valley.
For the last couple of hours daylight we explore the surrounding
park; paths winding under a giant conifer forest canopy and amongst
glades strewn with huge glacial dumped boulders. In a clearing we
arrive at an unusual temple: wooden framed construction with steep
teepee shaped granite tiled roof within a round outer pitched roof.
The doorway and beams are carved with figures and all around the
outside hang horned skulls of Ibex, blue sheep and other mountain
animals. Stooping through the doorway into the surprisingly small,
thickly plastered interior that muffles all the outside noise, I find
a simple shrine dug under the floor in one corner, opposite is a fire
pit and in-between the two sits a plain dressed man amongst an
arrangement of brass dishes of dye powders, grains of corn and puffed
rice, orange marigolds for people to buy and make offerings of.

We walk another
kilometre or two, crossing the river to old Manali. Steep streets
wind past hippy hangouts, chill zones, cafes offering real coffee and
agents selling trekking tours each pumping out there own solemn
variation of a Goan trance beat. Real coffee and chicken burgers can
wait as we push on into the oldest part of town where some of the
traditional half timber long house type buildings with jettied second
floors still remain, all be it amongst the concrete new builds and
extensions that seem to be smothering the valley. Livestock occupy
parts of the long houses and loose hay is stored in the upper parts
of some, or in separate ricks neatly billowing out between the wooden
beams on all sides.

We reach the temple at
the top of the village and look out over the rooftops at the awesome
peaks beyond, changing blue to ochre and deep orange as the clouds
spill over, the sun drops behind us and the crisp cold air rolls in.

15/10/17 Rhotang Pass

Prayer Flags, Rhotang La

Start the day with
omelettes, two eggs beaten in a metal cup with milk, onions, salt and
chilli; fried on a gas stove with four pieces of bread soaking up the
mixture, folded up and served on a paper plate with chia, cooked one
at a time by a smiley street seller as we enjoy the cool morning air.
After we hire a car to take us up the Rhotang Pass, 3978 metres up,
gateway to the high Himalayas. Beyond here I imagine true
wildernesses existing in legendary places like the Spiti valley,
territory of wild blue sheep and the almost mythical snow leopard or
beyond the next, much more treacherous pass, Rangcha La, a few miles
on where landslides and avalanches cut of the civilisations beyond
for much of the year. Halfway up, our driver points out a tunnel
under construction that will bypass Rangcha La making the outlying
region easily accessible when it opens next year, surely this will
have a revolutionising affect on the region.

Looking into the Chenab River valley; snow coming down.

In truth the Rhotang
Pass is far from this kind of isolation and adventure, but a popular
attraction for Indian tourists, who pile out of cars in 1980's onesie
ski suits and long fur coats, hired on the roadside for a couple
hundred rupees. There are chia sellers, offers of rides on a mule or
photos with a yak, but most of the visitors aim for a selfie in a
snowy scene, in complete polarity to the landscapes where most of
them have come from elsewhere on the subcontinent. As slightly
eccentric looking Westerners with easels, paints and drawing boards
we however, begin to rival this awesome backdrop in the selfie
stakes. All this going on, hardly detracts from the epic panorama of
deep valleys, vast peaks spun with clouds that build and fade and
build with dramatic speed, sometimes clearing enough to reveal the
higher peaks hidden for hours. An animated landscape, shifting,
reinventing kaleidoscope, a never static, panning out on every side.
We paint and draw through flurries of sleet and snow, pausing only to
catch our breathe in the thin air.

Rani Nallah

Rani Nallah - Scale

16/10/17 Beas River

Beas River at the Manasula confluence

We walk up river from
Manali Model this morning, over the steel girder military bridge
spanning the gorge and up river from the town to where views open up
towards the Solang Valley and snow capped Patalsu Peak in the North.
The extent of the river torrent in wet season is made apparent by the
200m or so width of the dry boulder strewn river bed. The main dry
season channel of icy clear water runs a bright cerulean blue in the
pools between the torrents. The valley is narrow and wooded with
mighty conifers that run up the steep valley sides. Brightly coloured
farmhouses cling to the river banks and high up the steep valley on
improbable terrain, precarious amongst the new build resorts and
guest houses going up all around. Above the road, golden bill magpies
flop from tree to tree dragging their long streaming tails, stray
dogs loyally trot alongside us, dropping away at invisible
boundaries. We find a way down onto the river bed, where tin roofed
shacks sprawl down the banks from the road, families finding space to
live below the flood line. A limping dog that tagged along a
kilometre back springs in to life at the site of hens scratching up
invertebrates. The commotion alerts some women washing clothes in a
brackish stream at the edge of the settlement, their clothes; lime
green, chilli red, fiery orange look brilliant amongst the neutral
grey river bed stones. I notice for the first time, a tawny coloured
cow motionless amongst the boulders behind me, a social plover reels
closely overhead, griffon vultures cruise along the rising air at the
edge of the ridge a thousand metres beyond. By midday it is too hot
and flat bright for painting, so we wait until early evening to find
a new spot at the confluence of the Manaslu river looking back up the
Beas. The Seven Sisters and the 5932 metre Hanuman Tibba peak rise in
the distance, snaring the first wisps of cloud seen all day,
reflecting the last colours of sun light.

Friday, 13 October 2017

It's 8.10pm and Delhi
won't let us go. Our two taxis are jostling forward in five lanes of
traffic on the Mehraui Gurgaon road, a fifth of our journey down and
it's been an hour since we left Sanskriti 4km away; the bus we have
booked leaves at 9.15pm. It's time for a change of plan, a quick
phone call to coordinate and we divert to Haus Kaus metro station,
from where we can just make the 50 minute journey to the bus station
at Kashmere gate. Ground to a halt again, our drivers pulls up on the
free-way, point in the direction of the metro and tell us to run, any
problems call us they say.

We run between the grid locked vehicles
with the flowing melee of rickshaws and mopeds, looking for a way
underground. Down the escalator at the station, jam our back packs
through the security -just fits, forgot my travel card, no time to
cue, do what the locals do and push through to the kiosk and urgently
wave notes at the attendant – it works! Onto the platform and spot
the others as a train comes in and it's rush hour on the Friday
before Diwali so the carriages are packed solid to the doors. When
they open people push on regardless and the carriage gives way and
people compress and we nearly make it but not quite, try another
door. No room, We're on the verge of giving in, sweating and
exhausted, desperate faces in that split second pause before the
doors shut on a full carriage sealing the fate of our getaway when a
gap appears and Doug miraculously steps in and I step up flattening
myself enough for the doors to close, cutting of the others who mouth
to us to 'hold the bus'.

The next gruelling hour on that train is a
trial of contorted compressed discomfort, testing stamina and
physical strength just to stay upright and on the train. In rush hour
on the Delhi Metro getting on a full train does not guarantee you
will stay on the train until you want to get off or that you will be
able to get off when your stop comes around. This is because the
density of people pushing to get off becomes a powerful force that
can easily sweep you away unless you push against it. The area around
the doors when this force meets the push of people wanting to get in,
because no one waits for people to get off, is the most tumultuous
crush area. This also where you need to be to have a choice of
getting off. If were to hold the bus for the others we need to
physically fight to stay by the doors and on the train to stand a
chance of getting off at our stop. As we hit the busy central
stations I use all my strength to resist the crush of boarding
passengers, clinging to the roof rail, swaying like a battered piece
of drift wood in the torrents of the Himalayan valleys we so
desperately want to get to tonight. Of course everyone smiles, grins
and laughs with us at the absurdity of it as we all elbow, punch and
forcefully rub against each others bodies. Thankfully, enough people
want to disembark at Kashmere gate with us that the torrent
out-forces those getting on and we are safely jettisoned onto the
platform.

Five minutes before the
bus leaves I'm elected to run on ahead, leaving Doug to run with the
bags. Up the escalator and I'm immediately lost, no time to decipher
signs I ask everyone at every turn where the bus station is. Up and
out the station onto the street, I keep asking and soon people are
pointing the way before I get to them. The buses are hidden under a
multi storey car park so I need this help, people keep pointing
shouting when I go the wrong way. I am so literally relying on there
waving arms that I end up at one point jumping over a wall I am
pointed at, straight into a police man. We hesitate as he calculates
my offence, sees the desperation behind my sheepish grin and with a
disapproving shake of the head releases me. I speed walk a few paces
out of respect, then sprint to the security. Bag through and into the
concourse – I look in dismay at the departure board, I cannot
decipher the Hindi script but can see the time of our bus is not
there. Another man wants to help me, he wants to show me the bus but
I ask him to point, only 2 minutes to go. There are bus stands
everywhere but I ask enough people that I find our Manali bus pulling
out and manoeuvring like they do in eagerness to leave. The conductor
is still on the ground and he says no problem to waiting five minutes
when I ask, knowing the others will need ten at least. My Indian
phone runs out of credit, so I can't direct the others. I go looking
back to the escalator, concourse, departure board but nothing, it's
too soon. Back to the bus plead for five more minutes, bus driver
this time, angry, 'no waiting for passengers' as he climbs into the
cab. I think the conductors more sympathetic, its an eleven hour
journey to Manali after all, what's 15 minutes now. Even so, I doubt
he can override the driver, chomping at the bit to get stuck into the
traffic.

The others must be lost, I run for one last look doubting
the driver will wait, then I spot them jogging along the stands, I
shout and wave, there going towards the bus which is pulling out, I
run back, bang on the drivers window and he stops, boot opens, our
bags are on. All five of us have made it, sweating, exhausted,
bruised and unprepared for an 11 hour bus ride. After beating the
Delhi rush hour however, we gratefully savour every traffic jammed,
pot holed, precipitous verged, blind bend overtaking moment of the
journey North to Manali. I get a call, it's our taxi driving to
'thank god we made it'.

Thursday, 12 October 2017

Returned to Jama Masjid to look for the black kites and find out more about if and why they congregate in this area. I walk around the mosque, on each side is an entrance, each slightly different; North side is where coach loads of tourists enter, East overlooks the Bazaar where people meet and chat on the way up the steps. South is on the road where car parts are sold and the auto rickshaws park up forcing pedestrians to walk with the traffic. A teenager is chasing a younger boy around the steps with a belt then lashes out a stray dog, a beggar is ignored, a small girl slips her hand from her mothers so she can skip in and out of the unmanned security gate at the entrance. Across the road is Kalan Mahal street, mainly butchers shops and restaurants preparing mutton and chicken. This seems the most likely source of waste to attract the kites.

I head back to the South side and into the bizarre that leads away from the mosque and along the wasteland, Meena Park, where the kites are flocking. The ground is hard and washed out umber with a weak fringe of grass tufts smothered with dust and building debris. Trees on the far side shade a small group of figures. The walled bank rises 20 metres to the street, cubes of aerial laced flats jostle higher still into a smoggy smudge. A dumper vehicle is parked, a man changes into a shalwar kameez and another paces in wide strides throwing his arms in the air grinning and proclaiming his views to the sky. Children and elderly men watch me draw, discussing my progress and arguing over which bit of the scene I am currently drawing. A woman in a sari, her child perched on the wall above me, physically follows my hand from paint box to paper, leaning in and out or rifles though the pages of my sketchbook whenever she can. One word I recognise is repeated over and over around me, 'cheel' the name for black kite in Hindi and Urdu, it seems to please the onlookers that I am drawing their birds, they admire them too I think. The cheels cousin the red kite was extinct in London by 1600 and almost nation wide until the hugely successful reintroduction programme brought them back.

As I finished drawing, a man approached me who I could question about the reason for the kites and confirmed that this area was used as a dump. The dumper moves and the flock draws in, magnetised to this visual cue. The bucket is empty though and the flock moves away expanding outwards, but without disipating. I wonder why there is no rubbish on this dump unless it is specific to meat in which case the kites play an important role in the city's sanitation. And will I find out anything about the man I saw from a distance feeding the kites?

Back at Sanskriti, sticky dust of the city washed away with a bucket, I find a spot in the garden to enjoy the final glow of orange light you get here in the evenings. Still trees turn quickly to silhouettes, flecks of leaves sprinkled across the subdued sky. A crooked spindly shape breaks the silhouettes in ungainly flight. Another one a few minutes later; two grey hornbills going to roost in a tall fig tree behind the abandoned house.

Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Our base for the next
few days is Sanskriti Kendra, a complex of art studios and museums
housing collections of ceramic sculpture, textiles and everyday
objects from across India. It is built on the site of an old farm
like many of the neighbouring villas along the quiet wooded, and
gated, road linking us to the busy Mehrauli Gurgaon road. The sounds of life along
this road are always in the background, beyond our peaceful shaded
enclave. We walk along Mehrauli Gurgaon road, turning left at our
junction to reach the nearest village (Ghitorni) and left to get to
the metro station, linking us to the city centre. The road is a dual
carriageway, though the traffic makes its own lanes and often takes
over the brick paved footpath as well, especially during rush hour or
to go against the flow. The metro runs down the middle, raised 30
metres in the air on concrete pillars, it snakes and twists although
the road is straight. Light from the sky opaque with smog glows
between the pillars in the morning and turns pink in the evening.
Lighting at night is from the headlights. A digital billboard flashes
regular air quality readings above the road in severe red script,
cows fill their bellies in one of the unofficially designated dumps
where rubbish spills across the walkway. The way to Ghitorni is lined
with furniture shops, before a narrow street lined with food sellers,
market stalls and high adobe apartments, forks off and branches into
a maze of squeezing people, motorbikes and rickshaws crossing,
pushing and weaving there way through. Going the opposite way we
reach the Metro station, a massive hull of concrete hanging under the
snaking line. It is painted with incredible murals in fresh new
paint. Between these two points the urban sprawl is contained to this
highway, beyond is wood and scrub, which from the raised vantage
point of the metro platform spreads several kilometres on either
side. Despite the roaring energy and claustrophobia of urban life
being carried along the road it feels rural, as our way is shaded by
overhanging forest, in equal measures to towering concrete, green and
fresh from the monsoon rains.

9th.
Gurdwara. Chandni Chowk & Nai Sarak

Volunteers making chapatis at the Gurdwara

Listened
to prayer (drums) continuous people walking in and out sitting in
cool corners. Separate entrance into food hall. Kitchens, drawing
volunteers making bread. Men cooking, transferring food between vast
pots lined along gas cookers. Cook for 5000.

Nai
Sarak, densely populated street every space utilised for stalls
spilling onto pavement. Chai cooked under the counter of stalls, food
carts along the street. Dense crush of rickshaws, auto-rickshaws and
bikes. Tangled mass of cables take up the overhead room and the tall
sides of the narrow street rise in a complex tessellation of
terraces. Utilising this domain, only the troops of Macaques move
freely, whilst at street level the crush of human life swells and
floods into every space as the traffic ebbs and flows and jams.

In
the evening I paint amongst the rows of terracotta sculptures outside
the museum at Sanskriti.

10th.
National Museum. Lodi Gardens

An
amazing collection of miniature paintings at the national gallery.
Spent the whole visit in two rooms of miniatures, 1st Pahaji
(17-19th) paintings and the many tangent styles of the regions under
it. 2nd
the Rajasthan movement and it's region styles; included discovering
Nidal Chand from Jodhpur, (layering of space and use of complex and
calm). I find I can paint in the museum as no one stops me! so free
to explore through colour studies. 2 minutes before we go I find
'Krishna peeping through the trees at bathing Radha' (Mewar, Choaka).
This is a small landscape of nocturnal palms and pools painted in
tones of entirely the same blue, then yellow pink figure in contrast
create incredible atmosphere. Makes colours brighter more powerful. I
see this later in the week on the spice market terraces: light moats
fall through chinks in the canopy highlighting ochres, orange and red
in the warm shadows, contrasting with the lilac walls of the
quadrangle in cooler light. (I lost this spice market drawing on the
way home. From memory could limit the palette at least for initial
drawing and exaggerate e.g. WB for CB then W over).

Black kites at the Bada Gumbad tomb, Lodi Gardens

After
the museum we went to Lodi Gardens. Peace, calm, lovers walking hand
in hand. Beautiful Mogul tombs and and mosques rise above lush mature
ficus trees so our discovered as we approach. Here Black kites gather
on a dead tree and rose ringed parakeets nest in the cracks of the
ruins. (look so much better here than West London)

11th.
Jama Masjid. Spice market on Khari Baoli

Black Kites in front of Jama Masjid

In
the morning we visited Jama Masjid. Climbing the steps to this mosque
offers great views across the bizarres towards the Red Fort. Above us
circle over hundreds of black kites – a scavenging bird of prey
that soars and floats like a toy kite, using its long forked tail as
a rudder. I follow the birds to the source of this mega flock,
leading me through the Mosque courtyard and out the East gate. Here I
look down onto a park, although it looks like a wasteland. At the
centre of this space a man in a white kameez is throwing scraps of
meat into the air – above him a whirling column of 500 kites rises
100 metres high. They are stacked almost, almost queuing to position
themselves throwing distance from the man and catch one of the scraps
he tosses up.

After
this we visit the spice market at the Western end of Chandni Chowk,
goods laid out on three levels of terraces inside a quadrangle. Dust
form sacks of chillies, turmeric, cinnamon fill the air so that
everyone breathing the air coughs and sneezes, including the sellers.
A constant stream of couriers bring sack load after sack load through
the narrow levels, outside the road is blocked with carts of spice.
Its stifling but the visual overload is addictive – return.